Sherlock vs Dexter
by biomechanical
Summary: While in Miami searching for Irene, Sherlock becomes involved in a murder case where he meets Dexter Morgan. What will happen when the Great Detective discovers Dexter's Dark Secret? Rated T for language and gore. Sherlock S2E2, Dexter S1. No slash. UPDATED 8-7-12.
1. Chapter 1

A/N:

This story can take place anytime between Sherlock S2E1 and S2E3. Dexter is set in S1 though I used the Dark Passenger instead of Harry because the DP is just better.

UPDATE: grammar, spelling and punctuation has been fixed where I could find the mistakes. Also, I've developed my own style since I posted this fic and fleshed out the story a bit. So while the plot and events are the same, there are more details.

Thank you all for the reviews, I really appreciate it! Thanks for reading!

I do not own Dexter or Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

><p><em>Have dinner with me. In Miami.<em>

_TB_

Sherlock Holmes read the text again once he was settled on the plane. Of course I will, he thought to himself with a soft smile. Theresa Barton. He liked that alias she chose. It just seemed to fit, her. He pressed the mobile to his chin as he stared out the small portal window at the clouds below as his thoughts wandered through his memories of her.

After he rescued her from Pakistan, she promised she would let him know where she was. She kept her promise; she had sent that text two days ago.

When he read that simple little message, he felt something he knew he always would when it came to her, but was it love? He wasn't sure and he honestly didn't care. All he knew was that he needed to see her, to be with her and that was good enough for Sherlock Holmes.

He hadn't replied to her text yet. He smirked as he slipped his mobile into his coat pocket. He knew very well he wasn't going to until he landed in Miami. That was all part of the game.

.

.

I stood looking up into the blue sky feeling a strange sort of peace because I imagined that everyone knew my dark secret and they thanked me with cheery, smiling faces for what I do. Social acceptance. Isn't that what every normal person wants?

"Hey psycho. Are you going to look at the clouds all day or are you going to do your fucking job?"

Then again, I'm not exactly normal.

I focus on Sergeant Doakes, who is currently standing much to close for anyone's comfort, and paste on my best fake smile. "Sure," I said in an equally fake cheery voice.

"Good," Doakes said with a spit. "Fucking freak."

"Uh yeah. If you say so." I said happily as I walk past him.

Behind me, I could hear Doakes harrumphing to himself. He probably wanted to say something else, but couldn't think of anything. I sometimes wonder if buried somewhere deep inside him, he has his own Dark Passenger. How else could he sense something wrong with me?

A thought to be pondered at some other time because right now, your Dashing Dexter has a body to look at.

The woman's corpse was sitting up against the alley wall, her legs stretched out in front of her and her head lolled to the side. She had been stabbed several times in the chest and her throat was cut. Her clothes and even her purse, was still with her with meant this wasn't a typical mugging gone wrong.

"What do you think, Dex?" asked Masuka. He works in the forensics lab with me. He's always asking me to go do things with him like a 'guys night out' to pick up women. I think he considers me a friend, but I'm really not quite sure.

"Well," I put on a latex glove and began examining the body, "this looks like a typical alley way mugging gone wrong. It was quick. Look at the stab wounds. They're at several different angles. He was probably interrupted though. Her purse is still here."

Masuka nodded as he crouched down next to me for a closer look at the stab wounds I pointed at. "Yeah, that's what I was thinking," he said thoughtfully.

I do know who murdered this woman. I just don't want Miami Metro to know because the killer is my future playmate. I couldn't have them ruin his appointment with my knife, so I purposefully lied to throw them off his trail. Lucky for him.

"Hey! You can't be in here! This is a crime scene!" That was Deborah, my sister. Her screeching voice could easily be heard over the hum drum of the crime scene.

My Dark Passenger, silent and bored till now, stirred and hissed softly in interest. I look up to see her walking briskly up to a tall, thin man with dark hair in a black suit with a wool overcoat draped over his arm. He stood with such a confident demeanor that if he were uncomfortable in a suit in this Miami heat, he certainly didn't show it.

"No fucking reporters," Deb said with her typical loud rudeness. "Leave!" She pointed to somewhere across the street.

"Excuse me," the stranger said in very annoyed, very British tone. "I am not a reporter. I'm a consulting detective and I'll identify the murderer by tomorrow afternoon."

Uh, oh. Normally I ignore detectives, even the ones at Miami Metro, but there was something about that man, something about the way his piercing blue eyes seemed to see right through everything as if it were made of glass and my Dark Passenger didn't like it one bit.

.

.

To be continued.


	2. Chapter 2

_I'm here. _

_SH_

Sherlock pressed the send button and felt a strong wave of anticipation wash over him. Was this how _normal_ people reacted when they have feelings for each other? He had no idea and found it completely and pleasantly irrational. Worse still, now he had to wait for her reply.

Why am I expecting her to reply so quickly, he thought as his fingers rapped on the small table next to the chair he sprawled over. After all, he took two days to reply to hers, didn't he? God did he hate waiting and there was no chance in anyone's Hell that he would do it in this extraordinarily dull hotel room.

Hopping to his feet, he grabbed his overcoat in a mindless force of habit that will probably surprise him when he thinks about this later, and swiftly headed out the door.

Once outside, he realized he didn't need his coat. The day was bright, sunny, and dreadfully hot. He unfastened the top couple of buttons on his shirt and opened his jacket that he refused to remove. He was already carrying his coat over his arm because he simply refused to go back to the room and he wasn't about to add the jacket to the mix.

Sherlock wandered down random street after random street fully realizing that he had no clue where to even begin looking for the Woman. He was truly at her mercy, and he discovered a part of him that liked that just a little too much.

After having a spot of tea, snarling at two women who made the mistake of asking him out on a date, and reading the local newspaper, he finally came across something interesting and worthy of his time; a police barricade at the entrance of an alley.

He made his way through the gathered crowd and ducked under the barrier tape without hesitation. That was a common practice of his, acting like he belonged there, and it wasn't surprising how often it worked. Instantly, he spotted the corpse of a woman sitting on the ground leaning against the wall.

Oh something fun, he thought gleefully as he made his way over to the body.

Suddenly, an annoying woman with long brown hair wearing a bad suit marched up in front of him, blocking his way and yelling at him to leave.

Sherlock's patience already grew thin as he stared down at the woman with an insulted frown. "Excuse me," he said with a snarl. "I am not a reporter. I'm a consulting detective and I'll identify the murderer by tomorrow afternoon."

"A what the fuck?" she asked.

He rolled his eyes as he reached in his pocket and handed her a business card.

The cards were John's idea and it was an idea Sherlock had thought rather absurd. Why did _he_ need something as trivial as a _business card_? Still, John insisted and showed up to the flat with them just the other day.

Of course, Sherlock didn't take them choosing to snub his nose at them. John had to sneak them into his coat pocket and now the detective silent thanked his persistent friend. Now he was glad to have the cards as they did prove to inflate his ego rather nicely.

"Sherlock Holmes. Consulting Detective. 221B Baker Street. London, England." The woman took her tedious time reading the card.

The detective's patience wore even thinner. There was a body over there and this _person_ was in his way. He was about to shove the annoyance aside and continue on his way when another better dressed, but older woman approached him.

"Is there a problem here, Detective Morgan?" she asked Morgan while eyeing Sherlock with a scrutinizing gaze.

"I got this, LaGuerta," Morgan said as she held up her hand. She then turned back to Sherlock. "Uh yeah, Mr…Holmes. This isn't London. It's fucking America and you can't just barge your way into a god damned crime scene. So get the fuck out of here." She hooked her hand around his elbow and started to lead him away.

Sherlock yanked his arm from her grip and stared coldly into her eyes using his height to loom over her. "You need me," he said evenly. "You have no clue who the murderer is."

"Oh?" Morgan rested a fist on her hip as she stared up at Sherlock to prove he didn't intimidate her. "And you think you can just have a quick look around and know?"

"You've just been promoted to inspector judging by the way you're constantly shifting and straightening out your clothing meaning you're not used to them and maybe even feel foolish in them." Sherlock spoke with utmost confidence and smugness as he held eye contact with Morgan. "No make-up, no jewelry, no animal hair tells me you live alone and without pets probably because you're afraid of commitment. All you do is your job spending a phenomenal amount of time holding pens, knocking on doors, and so on all right handed of course. Finally, the way you act around these people, it's clear you are pathetically desperate for them to notice you. Shall. I. Continue?"

Sherlock always enjoyed seeing the expressions of those usually unwillingly exposed to his scrutinizing deductions. Thus he didn't bother to hide the smug smirk playing in his features as both women stood silent with their mouths hung open in disbelief.

He did love a good audience.

.

.

I too stared in disbelief. Not because this Sherlock was absolutely right, but because he actually made my sister speechless. A tough feat in of itself, believe me.

Oh and LaGuerta's lack of talking was an added bonus too.

Still, the consulting detective knew that about Deb and they had just met. Or had they? It is possible that Sherlock did some prior research to pull off that trick, but did he? Is he really able to learn that much in a single glance? What will he make of me?

The Dark Passenger writhed in anticipation and hissed its impatience. It wanted to be closer to this man. There was something familiar about him, though it couldn't quite understand what that was just yet.

The Dark Passenger was clearly curious.

I was intrigued.

.

.

"How did you do that?" Morgan asked with a bit of flustered fascination.

"Simple deduction," Sherlock said matter-of-factly.

"Uhh, right. You're not some of weird stalker freak, are you?" she asked.

"I assure you, no," he said with a frown and snatched up her hand. "Look at your knuckles. Red, callused. Either you get into a lot of fights, or more likely you knock on doors, which is what I expect of an inspector investigating crimes."

Morgan seemed to accept the explanation and pulled her hand away.

"So, Mr. Holmes is it?" asked LaGuerta.

"Yes," he said and turned to her impatiently.

"I'm Lieutenant LaGuerta." She offered her hand in greeting. "You've certainly impressed me. We normally don't hire outside detectives, but I'll make an exception."

"Two minutes." He briefly shook LaGuerta's hand. "That's all I need."

"Alright. This way."

.

.

Masuka and I shared a surprised glance and stood up as Deb and LaGuerta escorted Sherlock over to us, and the corpse.

The Dark Passenger was thrilled and hissed in excitement. It felt something familiar in Sherlock, almost like, family.

"This is Dexter Morgan and Vince Masuka," LaGuerta said. "They're our forensics team."

I used the practiced impression of a casual smile and offered a hand shake.

He didn't shake either Masuka's or my hands as he brushed by us, but while he barely acknowledged Masuka, I noticed his gaze lingering on me for the few seconds it took him to walk past me. I suddenly felt as if he could see right through me. After what he said about Deb, could he?

"I want all of you to shut up," Sherlock said as he pulled on a pair of latex gloves Masuka handed him. "Don't touch anything more then you already have before you ruin all the data."

I watched in fascination as he crouched over the corpse. He lifted the body's feet, checked under her collar, and examined her ear under a magnifying glass he kept in his jacket pocket. It was the strangest method of forensics I had ever seen.

"Who the hell is this?" Sergeant Doakes asked LaGuerta as he walked up next to her.

"Sherlock Holmes," she said. "A consulting detective from London."

Doakes crossed his arms with his typical hard frown and watched Sherlock work. "Great," he said after a few minutes. "That's all I need, another fucking freak."

.

.

To be continued.


	3. Chapter 3

Astonishing. Doakes' instinct told him there's something not quite right with Sherlock just like my Dark Passenger sensed the strange visitor is…different. I smile and muse over Doakes' discomfort, especially when the cause is not yours truly for once.

"That's all I need, another Anderson," Sherlock said with a growl. He paused, holding the dead woman's shoe in his hand, and glared at Doakes with cold, pale eyes.

I knew that look. I've often thought to warn Doakes away with that very same cold, empty stare, but I need to stay hidden. I can never let my mask slip and give me away for the monster I truly am. Sherlock, however, doesn't seem to worry about that at all. He doesn't care if people see him for what he really is.

How I envy him.

"What did you say?" Doakes took a threatening step toward Sherlock, who remained cool and confident while staring at Doakes with narrowed eyes.

I found myself moving to intercept him. What was I doing? The unusual action seemed natural, like a reaction as if I was moving to protect…family.

"James, give it a rest!" LaGuerta stepped in front Doakes and glared at him with a warning eye.

He focused his pointed stare on her a moment before stepping down and turning away muttering something unpleasant under his breath.

Good thing Doakes listens to LaGuerta. I'm not sure what my new friend from London would have done, but judging by that look on his face, it probably wouldn't have been pleasant for Doakes.

.

.

As he gave the corpse a thorough examination, Sherlock felt comfortable in his element of mystery and clues that no one else knew to look for. There were a precious few things that made him feel this kind of exhilaration and he didn't like squandering the moment. It was almost as if something lurked inside him drinking up every ounce it could get.

Unfortunately, his revelry was shattered as soon as Sergeant Doakes opened his mouth. Hatred washed over Sherlock like fire, and it took everything in him to keep from leaping to his feet and doing something he probably wouldn't have regretted later.

Still, he wasn't about to let the idiot win, so he held his ground and studied every minute detail that is Sergeant Doakes. He was about to announce rather loudly that Doakes wets his pants every time he lifts weights at the gym, a revelation that was sure to provoke the desired embarrassment, when LaGuerta intervened.

Sherlock kept on eye on his new nemesis as the man turned and walked away in a huff. Thank God. He went back to examining the dead woman's shoe and sighed when he learned everything he was going to learn from the corpse.

Needing more data and even more important, needing to think, he abruptly stood up. As he mulled over all the evidence in his quick thinking mind, he paced to and fro generating the expected strange stares from everyone around him.

None of that mattered to Sherlock. He was used to that sort of reaction from the idiots. Besides, he knew that he was about to impress them with what he had learned in so short a time.

He spun on his heel and stopped face to face with Lieutenant LaGuerta. "This is not a one-time incident," he said with a sincere confidant air about him. "It's the work of a serial murderer."

.

.

Oh no. Those were the first words to cross my mind at Sherlock's declaration. The Dark Passenger snarled its disapproval.

I half listened to Sherlock as he described the evidence to LaGuerta and Deb, explaining how he came to that conclusion. It was genius really, but he could cancel my appointment with my chosen playmate and the Dark Passenger was not pleased. At. All.

I had been very meticulous about keeping the killer's victims separate, so a link between them couldn't be made. But Sherlock made that connection and he's asked to look at the forensics gathered on the two bodies he read about in the paper.

Steve Dayton is destined for my table, to meet his end in my play room and I'm not about to let this consulting detective get in the way.

Maybe my new friend was dangerous after all.

I look at my watch. 7pm.

It was getting late and I needed to prepare Steve's final destination. If he's going to end up in my slide collection, it will have to be tonight. "Listen, I've got to go," I said to Deb as I gathered my equipment.

"Dex? What?" asked my dear sister.

"I almost forgot about going to Rita's tonight." I lied as smoothly as ever.

"Alright. See ya later then," Deb said with a knowing wink.

With a convincing smile, I turned to leave but as I did, I caught Sherlock watching me with a cold, calculating gaze. I nodded a smile at him.

He only narrowed his eyes.

.

.

Dexter lied to that woman, Sherlock saw right through it.

Shortly after Dexter made his hasty escape from the crime scene, the other detectives determined that they had seen all there is to see and left to return to the Miami Metro station.

Lieutenant Morgan and Sergeant Batista offered Sherlock a ride to the station that he accepted only after he made it clear to the both of them that he needed silence to think.

As he settled into the back of the car and shot Batista a cold glare that effectively made the man fall quiet, Sherlock found his thoughts pondering about the curious Dexter Morgan. There was something about Dexter Morgan and though he could sense that something as soon as he laid eyes on Dexter, he just couldn't place what is was. Yet.

Why would Dexter lie to, Sherlock presumed, his sister? There was that quick flash of surprised fear that flashed across Dexter's face when Sherlock revealed the corpse as the victim of a serial murderer. That particular look of surprise wasn't the usual look he gets when he shows off. No. That was the look of a secret unexpectedly uncovered.

Was Dexter involved with this murder? That was a very real possibility and Sherlock suddenly had to know everything there was to know about Dexter Morgan.

Arriving at the station, Sherlock followed Debra and Batista up the two floors to the Homicide Division of Miami Metro. Batista made a round of introductions, but Sherlock could have cared less. He nodded his way through the monumental waste of time and asked for a place where he could work.

"Right this way," said Masuka, the annoying forensics investigator, and he beckoned Sherlock over to his office. "You can work in Dexter's office since we all know he's out getting some." He gave Sherlock a knowing wink. "I'll go get the stuff from those other cases for you."

Sherlock didn't really know what Masuka hinted at by the wink, so he didn't answer and frowned as he entered the small laboratory. He flipped on the light and stood in the middle of the room, taking in every detail from the microscope to the same trays.

Every item, every detail in that room was mentally stored in Sherlock's memory and subjected to instant examination. There was something missing. No personal touches, Sherlock noted. Usually people set out family photos and the like, but the only photos were the blood spatter images on the wall.

This was the first time Sherlock saw an office with none of those personal touches present. Almost as if the man that worked there was a ghost. Interesting.

Sherlock also observed that the lab was incredibly clean. More than it needed to be. There wasn't a spot of dust or a stain on the counter. No object lay out of place, all items visible have been neatly placed in perfect order. Intriguing.

Finally, Masuka returned with the evidence from the other murders. He sauntered into the small lab and set the items on the desk. "If you need any…"

"Shut up!" Sherlock interrupted with an impatient abruptness. "A game is on!" He smiled and glanced up at the blood spatter photos.

Dexter Morgan. Blood Splatter Analyst for Miami Metro Homicide. Murderer? Fascinatingly brilliant!

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To be continued.


	4. Chapter 4

The distinct ripping sound duct tape makes as it's pulled off the roll is like music to my ears. Tearing the strip of tape free, I used it as the final piece affixing the clear plastic sheet to the wall. The first sheet of many needed to cover the room's interior wall to wall, floor to ceiling.

The Dark Passenger quivered in anticipation of what's to come as I prepared the kill room.

Steve Dayton's choice of playground spots was something to be desired. A musty storage room at the back of a rented garage space was not what I would call ideal. Still, this is where he killed them. It is a perfect place for Steve's appointment with my Dark Passenger, and a private place no one is likely to find.

But if I was able to find it, could that Sherlock Holmes find it? The Dark Passenger hissed at the thought of his name. I frowned and stopped my work as I mentally walked though the steps I took that led me here.

Once I learned Steve's name, I ran his name through the database and learned that he was arrested on assault charges, twice. I paid a visit to the hotel where he works and collected a DNA sample that proved a match on all three girls. After that, it took me only a couple of days tailing him around town to find this garage.

I continued taping the plastic and reassured myself. If Sherlock Holmes does find this place, Steve and I will be long gone.

The Dark Passenger, smiling wide, agrees.

.

.

After about an hour, Sherlock was still going over the evidence of the other murder victims. Not because he needed to, but to buy some time. He glanced up at the clock. 8:30pm. Almost time.

"What the fuck are you doing here?"

Sherlock dropped his gaze to the source of the irritating voice.

The one and only Sergeant Doakes. He stood on the other side of the office window with his arms crossed and glared in with a disapproving, and maybe even a disgusted, frown.

Sherlock's expression hardened and he narrowed his ice blue eyes.

"Doakes, leave him alone," said LaGuerta as she walked up. Her tone sounded tired and annoyed as if she had to say that to Doakes all the time, a detail that Sherlock picked up.

"Why is he in there? We don't know who the fuck he is. Could be another psycho for all we know." Doakes just about snarled to LaGuerta, but kept his eyes locked in a deadpan gaze on Sherlock.

"Relax. He checks out, and he seems to be quite popular in London. He's all over the news over there," LaGuerta said with a nod toward Sherlock. "So leave him alone."

"But Mari…"

"No, James. Drop it."

Sherlock had remained still as stone during the exchange, his mind going over all the possible insults at his disposal he could use against Doakes. He relaxed slightly when Doakes gave in and stomped off toward his desk like a scolded child.

LaGuerta gave Sherlock a warm smile. "I'm sorry about that, Mr. Holmes. Please just ignore him. He's like that with everyone."

He gave her a small smile that he hoped showed he accepted the apology. It worked and LaGuerta walked away with a playful wave.

For a moment, Sherlock considered the possibility that the check LaGuerta did on him might alert those back home where he was. His being in Miami wasn't for them to know since he was there looking for Irene who was supposed to be dead. However, he didn't really bother to conceal his tracks, so it really didn't matter.

Irene.

He realized he hadn't thought about her since he walked into that crime scene. The thrill of a murder to solve overwhelmed his thoughts just as it has many times in the past. Besides, maybe she was going to make him wait two days before replying to his text and it didn't matter. He had something to pass the time.

The evidence he'd been going over did serve to answer some questions, but something wasn't right. Sherlock knew the victims were connected because they all stayed at the same hotel, but that fact seemed to have been ignored.

Probably due to their ignorance, Sherlock thought. Or is Dexter hiding the evidence? Indeed, there were pieces missing to this little puzzle.

Time to test a theory.

Time to make a phone call.

.

.

I'd just finished sharpening my favorite playtime toy, the butcher knife, and carefully placed the knife on the large metal tray along with the other tools of my trade. As I stand in the plastic covered room, I look over all the details important for my ritual.

The metal tray rested on a small cart next to the table in the middle of the room. Taped along the wall at the foot of the table was a photo of each of Steve's victims. Every square inch of the room was covered in plastic. I'd often wondered why other serial killers didn't use plastic like this. Not only does it keep the evidence contained, but it sure makes cleaning up that much easier. I mean, people like their garbage cans with trash bags, don't they?

Everything was perfect. The Dark Passenger purrs its approval.

I checked my watch. 8:30pm. Since I had acquainted myself with Steve's schedule, I knew he was currently at work at the hotel where he selects his victims.

Time to flush him out.

Time to make a phone call.

.

.

In the privacy of the lab, Sherlock set the office phone back into its cradle and glared at it with narrowed eyes. After a bit of clever manipulation, he'd earned the number he needed to confirm a suspicion; Dexter was not at Rita's.

Sherlock rolled this information around in his mind and did not come up with anything conclusive yet, but it did indicate that Dexter was involved in the murders somehow. Moving on, the consulting detective picked up the phone and called the hotel, the place all the victims had in common.

He told to the desk clerk he was police office and demanded a description of anything or anyone unusual in the past week. After listening to several bits of dribble, the desk clerk eventually produced something useful. An employee by the name of Steve Dayton had just received a phone call, seemed rather disturbed in a 'I just got caught red handed' way, and then abruptly left work explaining there was an emergency.

Sherlock immediately processed the new clues. Steve Dayton, as an employee, would have access to the victims. Steve's days off corresponded to the timeframe the victims disappeared. Adding this to what he already knew, the facts pointed toward Steve Dayton as the killer.

However, Sherlock was sure Dexter was involved and the question was how. He smiled as his fingers formed a steeple. This case was becoming more interesting the more he learned about it. Oh, how he loved these kinds of cases.

Still, there was work to be done. Sherlock called on Masuka to pull up a record of Steve Dayton where learned the man had a record of theft. Boring. Masuka, of course asked if Steve was a suspect, and Sherlock told him it was just a hunch.

While he was more than happy to blast Scotland Yard with the details of his brilliant deductions, he knew that this wasn't Scotland Yard. This was not a place for making a mistake. He had to be sure he was right. He had Steve's address now, memorized from the record, and he was going to pay him a visit.

.

.

The Dark Passenger is driving now. I am in the back seat, watching. We're in Steve Dayton's house, lurking in the shadows. Waiting to strike. Headlights flash across the living room window. A car parking in the driveway. He's here. Holding the syringe in our hand, we stand ready. As soon as he walks through that door, he will be ours.

.

.

"Pull over here," Sherlock said to the cab driver and as soon as the car came to a halt, he tossed the driver a twenty and stepped out of the car. "You don't need to wait."

The cab sped away and the consulting detective stood alone on a dark street just a few houses away from Steve Dayton's address. Night had fallen and Sherlock looked up at the clear sky that sparkled with the few stars that can be seen through the glow of the city lights. Noting that there were few street lights that actually worked in this slightly run-down neighborhood, he made his way down the sidewalk.

Once in front of Steve Dayton's home, Sherlock scanned the house. There was no car in the driveway and there wasn't a single light on indicating that no one was home. He pulled on a pair of latex gloves he took from the station and made his way to the back of the house. Thankfully, none of the neighbors seemed to be home either ensuring his break in would remain secret.

Once inside the house, Sherlock pulled out a small flashlight and shined the beam of light quickly across everything and just as quickly absorbing all the details. The most important of those details included photos on the wall of who had to be Steve smiling next to a classic car in front of a garage and the spot of fresh blood on the edge of the coffee table in the living room.

The detective spun on his heel this way and that as he examined the room more closely. There were definitely signs of a struggle judging the even the obvious evidence such as the overturned ashtray on the floor and the bunch up carpet in front of the sofa.

Those signs meant only one thing, Steve Dayton has a victim right now.

In light of this new information, Sherlock's mind raced into overdrive as he searched the house for clues as to where Steve takes his victims. The sudden urgency that drove Sherlock really had nothing to do with saving someone's life; rather it was the need to discover the truth, to prove how clever he really is, and to win. If anyone was saved or sent to prison while Sherlock fed that need, it was a mere side effect.

In a back bedroom, he forced open a locked drawer in a cheap wooden desk and discovered photos of men and women bound, gagged and bloodied. There was one picture for each victim and this confirmed that Steve Dayton is the killer.

Now Sherlock had to find him.

.

.

We open the trunk of Steve's car finding Steve still unconscious. The Dark Passenger smiles a wide grin. A quick scan of the area confirms there is no one around to see us pull Steve out of the trunk and take him inside the garage.

In the plastic covered kill room, we lay our playmate on the table and begin wrapping plastic wrap around his body. The Dark Passenger smiles in delight of the game.

.

.

"Come on, where are you!" Sherlock snarled as he mentally poured over all the details of the house he'd remembered since walking in. The photo of Steve in front of the garage came into focus and Sherlock snapped his fingers.

Dashing into the living room, he ripped the photo off the wall and examined it closely. The garage was a rental. He spied a stack of papers on the coffee table and frantically rummaged through mail and bill until he found what he was looking for, the bill for the garage.

The address was nearby and as Sherlock bolted out of the house and down the street, he smiled in the delight of the game.

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To be continued.


	5. Chapter 5

The garage was less then a mile from Steve's house. Convenient, but stupid for someone in the business of serial killing, thought Sherlock. He scanned the area as he quickly climbed over the chain link fence and cautiously approached the building.

Steve's garage was a unit in a long building of other rental garages. Each unit had a large rolling door and a regular door on the side. His unit was about halfway down and right under a large lamp illuminating the yard. The place was silent and empty save for the car parked right in front of the unit in question. The car could only be Steve's.

Sherlock quickly walked toward the unit door keeping as close to the building as possible. Once at the side door, he tried the handle. Locked, of course. He didn't have his lock picking kit, so he had to improvise with some rusted wire he spied on the ground a few feet away.

Slowly and quietly, Sherlock opened the door and slipped inside.

.

.

The Dark Passenger and I leaned against the wall waiting patiently for our new friend to awaken. This was the calm before the Need is fulfilled. Suddenly, the hair on the back of my neck rose and I was immediately alert.

The Dark Passenger strained its senses beyond this small room and detected something. While very faint, there was a noise out there in the garage. We were not alone.

I stepped silently across the plastic floor and grabbed my butcher knife off the tray. Working in unison with the Dark Passenger, I quietly pulled the plastic sheet away from the maintenance door and slowly opened it.

I peered out into the dark of the garage, but I can't see anything beyond the narrow bar of soft light from the room behind me. The Dark Passenger, however, knows someone is there.

.

.

Sherlock crouched behind the classic car parked inside the garage when he heard the door in the back open. He could see a silhouetted figure standing in the doorway and the unmistakable gleam of a butcher knife.

Clutching a large crescent wrench he took from the tool bench, he made his way down the side of the car and stopped at the front fender. He paused and waited.

The figure moved and took a couple of steps toward the other side of the car.

Perfect. Like a cat, Sherlock vaulted over the fender and slammed his foot into the man's gut knocking him back through the plastic covering and into the maintenance room.

.

.

I took two steps away from the door and had no time to react. I always considered myself ahead of the game, especially with the Dark Passenger giving me the upper hand in these situations, but whoever attacked me is my equal.

I found it rather odd that I thought about this as his foot caught me square in my stomach and sent me flying back into the maintenance room. I staggered back and lost my footing on slippery plastic floor. As I fell flat on my back, the Dark Passenger unfurled its wings and howled in anger.

I lifted my head and looked at the tall man wearing black slacks and a nice button up shirt. He strode over to me with long, sure steps and stood over me with a wrench in his hand clearly ready to use it at a moment's notice.

I was shocked and amazed. The man is Sherlock Holmes.

He glared down at me with a hardened glaze, and I recognized that look in his eye. Oh how I know it well. That is the look of the hunter enjoying the thrill of the hunt and the satisfaction of catching the prey. The Dark Passenger snarled at this other like itself that had bested it.

Sherlock kicked the knife out of my hand and pressed his foot on my chest. "Dexter Morgan," he said matter-of-factly as he narrowed his eyes at me.

"The one and only," I said and managed a small smile. I felt as if I could be myself in front of this man and it would be okay. Strange, I know.

Sherlock looked up and surveyed the room. He didn't seem disturbed in the least upon seeing a man tied to a table with plastic wrap. He simply took in the scene as if it were an everyday thing to see. If I didn't know better, I would say he simply didn't care.

He looked back down to me and a smile played across his face. "I see! Oh do I see!" Sherlock exclaimed with a grin. "How absolutely fascinating! You set up the pictures of Steve's victims in this place where Steve killed them. You are a serial murderer and your victims are other serial murderers, aren't they?"

I nodded with a grimace and started to think of a way out of this situation, but I could see that he was genuinely excited by the discovery.

Sherlock laughed, yes, he laughed. Call me Clearly Confused Dexter.

"I can say I have yet to come across anything like this," Sherlock said. "But it is a unique way of serving justice."

"I can say I wasn't expecting this sort of reaction."

"Ah yes. You would expect revulsion, I assume." He shrugged his shoulder as he looked over at Steve on the table. "What did you drug him with?"

"M99," I said with confusion quite clear in my voice. What can say? I was at a complete loss. He was actually curious about my work?

"Etorphine," Sherlock said as if he were reading out of a text book. "Sedates instantly upon injection and lasts approximately twenty to sixty minutes." He nodded in approval.

"Yeah," I said and lifted my head. "Do you mind?" I motioned that I would like to sit up.

He turned his pale eyes on me and I felt like I was under a microscope. The Dark Passenger saw the other buried deep behind those eyes and knew it to feed on justice. After a moment, Sherlock nodded and moved his foot off my chest.

I sat up and held my stomach a moment that not only served to sooth the pain a bit, but also allow me a chance to figure out what I'm going to do. I cannot be arrested, but I certainly can't kill Sherlock. That would violate Harry's Code. Then there was Steve Dayton still wrapped to the table, what about him?

"What do you do with the bodies?" Sherlock asked with curiosity.

"I dump them in the Gulf," I said. "Listen, Steve there is going to wake up soon, and he hasn't seen my face, so…"

"You want to know what I'm going to do," Sherlock said and raised eyebrow slightly.

"Yes," I said flatly. The Dark Passenger writhed like a trapped animal and I hated that feeling.

"Simple." The consulting detective spun on his heel and began ripping the plastic off the wall.

The Dark Passenger fell just as silent as I was speechless. I sat there watching him pull apart the kill room with my mouth agape. For the first time in my life, I was surprised. Genuinely surprised.

After a moment, Sherlock paused and looked at me. "Don't just sit there! This has to be gone or the plan won't work."

"Plan?" I asked feebly as I climbed to my feet while holding my stomach.

He rolled his eyes with a sigh as if he expected me to know what he was thinking. "You are going to take Steve back to his flat. He hit his head on the coffee table and that is the last place he will remember. I will go back there and call the police. They will find the photos of his victims and he will be convicted. No one has to know about you as long as you didn't do something stupid like leaving your fingerprints at his flat."

I shook my head and held up my hands. "Gloves."

"Good." He continued tearing down the plastic and I followed suit.

As we took apart my kill room, I smiled. Sherlock turned out to be a friend after all. It just made sense that we would be, I suppose. He is the same as me, though I wondered how he fed his Need. The Dark Passenger didn't feel murder was a part of his ritual. I had to know.

"Why are you doing this?" I asked him.

"I have a need to solve crimes," he said as he rolled up a length of plastic. "Not just any crimes, however. Most are extraordinarily boring. They have to be interesting and I cannot rest until I solve them. Nothing else matters until then. Besides, who really wants criminals roaming the streets? You have the same kind of need, although your methods are bit…harsh. I settle for imprisonment. Still I understand the need and I'm willing to overlook this because in the end," Sherlock looked at me with an intense gaze, "they are put in their place."

Later I found out that Sherlock did exactly what he said he was going to do. After we cleaned up my kill room, I took the unconscious Steve back to his house. Sherlock went to Steve's home to 'follow up on a hunch', saw him lying on the living room floor and called in the police. They found the photos and Steve Dayton was arrested sure to spend life in prison. Steve Dayton may have escaped my justice, but I know his imprisonment slaked the Need of Sherlock's Dark Passenger.

My Dark Passenger had met one of its own and they are kindred spirits. I had finally found acceptance. Sure it's with one person, but that's all a monster like me needs.

.

.

Sherlock leaned against a patrol car just outside Steve Dayton's house. He found himself contemplating the consequences of letting someone like Dexter Morgan remain free to continue killing. Dexter's victims were murderers, does that make it justice? Perhaps, Sherlock decided, for who was he to criticize Dexter? He who breaks into flats, steals and manipulates anyone around him to get what he wants. No, Dexter was a kindred spirit that Sherlock could not deny.

Suddenly, his thoughts were broken by the chime of a new text message.

_River Park Hotel. Now._

_TB_

Sherlock can't hide his growing smile. Irene. At last.

.

.

End.


End file.
